Rains of the West
by walktheglobe
Summary: When a secret shipment of coin goes missing, along with the soldiers guarding it, a disgraced lord is called upon to investigate. There is corruption at the heart of the Lannister court, and Olivar Sarsfield must find it, and dig it out. When he does, it will mean death for entire houses.
1. Author's Note

**Author's Note**

This story surrounds the events leading up to the Reyne-Tarbeck rebellion. Picking a specific time is quite difficult, especially because I haven't written it all yet. By my estimate right now, we are in the 259th or 260th year after the Targaryen Conquest, and Jaehaerys II is just taking over from Aegon V. Robert's rebellion will begin in 22 or 23 years, and most of those players are young men or infants. The war of Ninepenny Kings has not begun yet, but will soon, and Tywin Lannister will become a man and a knight. I took a great deal of inspiration from John LeCarrre's _Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy _in planning it, so if you're a fan of good spy fiction, some of these non-canon characters may seem very familiar. That said, I've done my best to make this story lore-friendly. I welcome any comments or advice to improve the story in this manner.

Like I mentioned before, this story is not finished. Hardly even started. I have it mapped out and each major section should be fairly self-contained, so I'll post them as I write them. I'm a grad student, living off loans, and I'm writing this instead of my thesis, so please be patient with any delays. A Prologue and Interlude, together about 7500 words, are in beta right now. Chapter 1 is in a rough draft, and may be a week or two, since it's funding season and I have proposals to write and science to do.


	2. Prologue

**Prologue**

Dabed raced the smell of rain on the air, hoping to rake out the last stall in time to watch the storm arrive. There was only one horse in the stable today, a messenger's black courser, sleek and spirited. She had nipped at him when he first came to rub her down, but had calmed. A hard afternoon's ride with a storm at their back had left horse and rider both relieved to reach The Broken Yoke.

The air was getting close, Dabed thought the storm was a half hour away at most. Anyone coming up the road after it broke would be drenched and cross and not likely to tip him. Dabed would have twice as much to do putting away their horses and tackle, but he didn't mind. The rain woke all the smells of the country. The straw and cedar plank barn and the black churned fields offered up their scents in anticipation of summer rain.

Patting the courser's nose, Dabed climbed to the hay loft, swung open the second-story door they used to load hay, and sat with his legs dangling. He had learned many useful things in his short life, though how long that life had been he could not guess. He knew that it was better not to be seen by those set above him in life. He knew he had seen nine name days since he learned to count, maybe thirteen or fourteen in all. And he knew that it is better to see things coming, and so he watched the western sky darken, watched the road for riders.

A fitful breeze rustled the trees along the River Road, stretching into the lowlands before him. The air carried the smell of rain and faint rumble of thunder. The black snorted in her stall at the sound. This was Dabed's place in the world. It was not a fine room in the highest castle, but here he could see for miles. He thought any orphan stable boy would envy him the view.

Uncle Mellet called Myck and Ronnet for dinner. Dabed knew it meant he should go too, though Mellet never actually called him.

Dabed's mother had stumbled into the common room one day ten years before, half dead of fever, barely aware of the silent starving toddler clutching her skirt. Mellet had cared for them both at great expense to himself, or so he said, until she died in the night having never spoken a word in explanation. "Just like her to come here and die on my doorstep, leave another mouth to feed," Mellet liked to say, as often as he could. As soon as Dabed was big enough to lift a saddle and reach a horse's neck to brush it, he had slept in the stable, and they were all happier for it.

Ronnet had been a baby when Dabed arrived, and only knew life with a brother and cousin. He treated Dabed with the same benign neglect as Mellet, but Myck had been four and seemed to blame Dabed for the death of their mother, though that had been months before Dabed's arrival. Dabed sometimes wondered why Myck didn't blame Ronnet, whose birth had torn and bled her to death. He had learned not to voice those thoughts, and also how to curl into a ball with his arms over his face when they beat him.

Not that Dabed was a weakling. He'd had his man's growth, and was just a little shorter than his uncle. Like Myck, he tended toward fat when times were good, but lacked Myck's muscle. All the other boys in town teased Dabed, but he could keep up with any one of them in a race or a fight. His cousins had picked on him often enough that Dabed could probably have fought any two at a time, although he knew that always meant taking as many bruises as he gave out, and much worse once he fell down or cried for mercy. So Dabed tried not to fight, and since talking to other boys usually led to fights, he tried not to talk either.

Color erupted from the horizon, dappling the undersides of the clouds in fuchsia and orange and the deepest violet. Dabed froze and watched, hardly breathing. Beyond the ploughed field more lay fallow, weedy grass shone in imitation of the sky and seemed to dance. He realized that the rain was already falling there, and spotted the rain itself as the squall slid toward him, a curtain of crystal slivers flashing orange in the sun. Thunder rolled again, though gently, and the patter of warm raindrops in the yard's dust reached his ears, and then the stable's thatch roof seemed to sigh with the rain, and he sighed with it. The sun slid quickly past the gap it had shone through, like when Ronnet had shown Dabed a bright clear stone he'd found in the river, hiding it from Myck lest he steal it and toss it into the bushes. Dabed's mouth quirked. The thought of Mellet and the rest, intent over their stew as the world gifted this vision to him, felt a little like a repayment. Bruises healed, but this sunset was unique, and his alone.

But there was someone else out there. As Dabed finally tore his eyes away from the horizon, which was quickly turning from violet to nearly-black blue, he saw a horse. The horse's head was low and the rider bent forward in obvious misery. The horse ambled along the road from Casterly Rock, just passing the spot where it bent east and approached Oxcross. The Broken Yoke was the first shelter the rider would have seen for some thirty leagues, so he would surely stop for the night. He would track mud and rain into the common room and the horse would need rubbing down. Dabed sighed and closed the door and climbed down from the loft. Mellet wouldn't be happy to hear that a traveler was coming so late, but he'd be somewhere between angry and violent if Dabed didn't warn him. Also, Dabed would probably only have a few minutes to eat before the rider arrived. He dashed across the yard through the rain, slinked across the common room trying not to eye the messenger where he stared into a mug of Mellet's ale, and slipped into the kitchen.

"Like as not some bloody lordling, what'll blame me for the bloody rain and his ruined bloody boots," Mellet grumped when Dabed told him. He waved Dabed to the stew pot and went out into the common room to greet the rider. Dabed gulped straight from the dipper, sucking in air to cool the scalding carrot and turnip and beef, waiting to hear Mellet's honeyed Innkeeper Voice greeting the newcomer. He looked over to the table where Myck and Ronnet ate out of wooden bowls. Myck gave his usual glare, but Ronnet tossed Dabed an end of bread. Dabed scooped out the middle and ladled more stew into the crust and took it out to the stable with him, hunching over it has he crossed the yard again. It was darker now and the warm summer rain had found its pace, a steady patter that would soak the fields but not cut deeper ruts in the road. A good rain.

Dabed stood against the southwestern corner of the stable under the eaves, slurped at his stew, and listened for the telltale clink of tackle or snort of a sodden horse. He'd finished the stew and begun eating the trencher itself when he finally wondered why the rider hadn't come yet. He moved around the corner into the shadow and waited for his eyes to adjust while he chewed. The Broken Yoke wasn't fancy and the rain not cold, but Dabed couldn't imagine a rider who would pass an inn they saw at nightfall as a storm broke. Maybe some messenger on urgent business, but the rider Dabed had seen had not been keeping an urgent pace. Dabed was chewing the last bite of his bread when his eyes finally adjusted enough, and he realized that he could see an outline against the fading gray of the western horizon. The horse was stopped, and as Dabed stared, the rider slumped further and fell with an audible clatter. The horse whickered in surprise and confusion.

"Uncle Mellet! He's hurt!" Dabed shouted over his shoulder as he jogged out of the yard and down the lane toward the dark form. They had stopped where the lane leading to the inn joined the River Road, not fifty yards from the stable. The rider was a dark mass of sprawled legs and soaked cloak in the thickening road mud. Dabed patted the horse's nose so it wouldn't nip at him or kick when Dabed tried to help the rider. It snorted; to Dabed's ear it seemed to welcome help.

Dabed bent to the rider, pulled the cloak away and shifted the sword on the man's hip to roll him onto his back. The man was big, his leather tunic fine and supple. "Ser! Are you hurt?" Dabed asked loudly, but the man didn't react. His face and hair were caked with the mud he'd lain in, but as the rain began to rinse it away Dabed could see an ugly dark gash on the man's forehead, with a jagged flap of skin folded back toward the man's right ear. The blood that drenched the right side of the man's face cracked and flaked away in places, but the gentle rain would not wash it away completely. The wound would need cleaning soon, if the man hadn't already bled to death.

"The idiot fell?" Dabed hadn't noticed Mellet approach. He stood and scowled over Dabed's shoulder at the fallen man.

"Hit his head I guess, but it doesn't look like the fall did it," Dabed said. He looked for other obvious wounds but couldn't find any.

"That's good," Mellet said. Dabed looked at his uncle in surprise. "If that idiot got hisself hurt on our land, like as not he'd blame us. Let's get him inside." Mellet scowled at the inconvenience but bent to take the man's legs. Dabed grabbed the man's shoulders and all three groaned, the rider in pain and Dabed and his uncle at the weight. The man was definitely alive, but he was well over six feet and had to weigh twenty stone with his gear. Dabed let him down to another whimper, and unhooked the man's cloak and sword belt and with difficulty he and Mellet dragged the man as far as the yard.

Mellet yelled "Ronnet! Go for Gwendel, tell 'er to bring 'er things. Myck, gitchyer fat arse out here'n carry!" Mellet's fine innkeeper voice always disappeared when he yelled.

They got the man into the common room and laid him out on the end of the one long table. The messenger helped too, and was the first to notice that the man's leathers were dyed a deep red and that his hair was a sodden mop of golden curls. "A Lannister, or maybe a Rayne." Either way, likely more important than all of them together.

"Dabed, get his things," Mellet snapped without looking away from the unconscious man. Myck poked the scabbed wound on the man's head and Mellet slapped his hand away, but a thin stream of blood ran into the man's hair. Dabed took a lantern and walked back out into the rain and found the horse still at the crossroads, nose down and ears back, though one swiveled toward Dabed as he approached. Dabed gathered the sword and cloak and took the horse's reins, now conscious of how big it was. The last destrier he'd seen had nearly broken his arm with a bite, so Dabed kept his hands away. The horse came calmly, though, with nothing but a few snorts. Dabed led the stallion into a stall and took off the saddle and sodden blanket. There were plenty of people to help the rider, so Dabed gave his attention to the man's posessions. He rubbed the horse down and gave it fodder and then cleaned the tackle. Not a rich saddle, but the rivets were steel with not a trace of rust. He hung it up and then remembered the sword.

He dried the scabbard and drew the sword, meaning to dry it too. It was heavy and felt awkward in his hands. He supported the flat of the blade with one hand to hold it still enough to inspect it. He found himself looking into his own reflection, distorted and doubled across the fuller. Castle-forged steel, well-polished and maintained and with an edge that seemed to sing. The crossguard and pommel were unornamented rounded flairs of steel, the hilt wrapped tightly in leather worn smooth by use. Dabed had dreamed of winning glory with a sword like any boy, but this was the first he had ever held. Suddenly feeling very young, Dabed sheathed the sword and brought everything back inside.

He found Gwendel bent over the man, pressing a bandage on the head wound. The man moaned softly but still seemed to sleep. Dabed stayed back and watched. There were other, bigger people to help. Gwendel had Mellet and Myck shift the man around to remove his clothes. With his tunic and shirt off, they finally saw the second wound, a little slit in the middle of the man's shoulder blade. Splintered wood and steel poked out, and there was a visible lump under the skin beside it.

"Arrow," Gwendel said, "probably stuck in the shoulder blade and shattered when he fell. I'll have to get the pieces out. Keep him up on his side." Gwendel wasn't educated like a maester, but she had learned of herbs and sewing wounds from her mother and grandmother. She mostly birthed calves and sewed cuts, but when she wasn't around people said she'd followed the Targaryen host against the rebellion some twenty years before and had seen and treated wounds that would make any grown man faint to see.

Gwendel dug out the pieces she could find, but cursed at one stuck in the bone. She pulled at it with her fingers and a set of little steel tongs, but only yielded more frustration and moans from the man. "That'un'll have to stay," she said, and packed the hole with an oily paste she dug from a jar in her bag. She bandaged the shoulder and they took off his pants and checked for more wounds. Gwendel smeared more paste into the head wound and sewed it shut. A little more paste went on a cut on the man's knee, probably from the fall from his horse, and told them to dry him off and wrap him in a blanket in front of the fire. Then she left, telling them to fetch her if there was any change. The others trickled away to bed, but Dabed watched the man some time longer. The Lannister slept fitfully, with his face screwed up in pain or hatred. He shivered and didn't seem to know where he was.

Dabed had thought of himself as happy, with his horses and his view and a full belly every night. The soldiers who had passed through town before had been as far from him as the stars, but this one lay naked before the fire sweating and shivering. He was human, a weak man on the edge of death, but he fought visibly against the fever, fierce in his fever dreams. To Dabed, the ferocity was other, alien, and he studied the man into the night, looking for the source of the fury.


	3. Interlude

**Interlude**

For days, they all simply called him "The Soldier." The Soldier slept. The Soldier mumbled. The Soldier screamed and burned with fever, but most of all The Soldier slept. Gwendel came again the next afternoon to change his bandages, and Dabed came to watch. She seemed pleased by the head wound but _tsk_ed at the shoulder. The wound burned red and had puckered at the edges. When Dabed came close it radiated heat like a cook fire, and smelled sweet.

They still knew little about The Soldier. His clothes were finely-made but devoid of embroidery. There was a little pin on the collar, a rampant lion lacquered red on gold. A Lannister then, a sergeant or lieutenant by Mellet's estimation. His purse was mostly copper with a few silver pieces. His saddle bags held trail bread and jerked beef and a few little green apples, steel and flint and tinder, a whetstone, some cord, two gold dragons, and a letter that Mellet had puzzled over briefly. The man had no water skins, no armor, no bedroll. When he muttered, it was usually unintelligible, but sometimes they heard "no" and "run" and "betrayed."

The others mostly left Dabed to watch The Soldier. On the evening after The Soldier's arrival a merchant caravan stopped in town and Dabed spent the night and most of the next day scurrying after their needs.

That night the screaming started. Ronnet ran for Gwendel immediately and Dabed held down a leg as Gwendel tried to force some stinking tincture into The Soldier's mouth. The Soldier's leg was pale and lean and covered in golden, almost white hair. Dabed lost his grip once, while Gwendel was examining the arrow wound. He hardly felt the kick, but found himself sitting against the stone wall with a split lip and the others shouting at him. He got back up and held on like the leg was a horse that would be his if only he could break its spirit.

Again he stayed and watched The Soldier late into the night, sitting in the room's only chair by the window, not bothering with a candle or lamp. Lights from the town cast a vague brown light against one wall and the ceiling, normally not enough to see, but The Soldier's thrashing and moaning made him visible enough. The window let a draft through, and the breaths of cool night air only made the stink of sweat and sick worse. Then, after midnight, the moon came up. Dabed decided he must have dozed because when he looked out it was already well above the trees, and though waning it lit the rooftops and countryside and the room with a bold blue glow. The Lannister was quiet, sleeping peacefully. In the moonlight the man seemed to be weaker than ever, a beardless boy, hardly older than Dabed.

The next morning, after saddling and hitching the caravan's horses, Dabed fell asleep in the hay loft, watching the West. He awoke hot and groggy with the afternoon sun streaming in on him. His stomach rumbled, so Dabed made his way to the kitchen. A few townspeople were eating in the common room, including Gwendel. Dabed didn't ask her about The Soldier. He preferred not to ask questions.

Mellet was bent intently over the cook fire, dropping herbs into a new soup. Dabed hadn't appreciated Mellet's cooking until they had closed up and gone to Lannisport for a day to shop, a year or two before. The innkeepers there left their stews to simmer for weeks or months, adding ingredients to keep the pots full. Dabed remembered trying to eat a bit of carrot, his favorite, and having it slip out of his spoon like a broken egg yolk. He would have pushed the bowl away in disgust if the innkeeper hadn't been a foot away, whispering trade secrets with Mellet. The stuff had tasted better than it looked, but there was none of the variety in texture and flavor that Dabed liked. Mellet took pride in his food. Old stew went to Harlet's pigs every third day, and in return, Harlet gave Mellet every third pig born. Mellet usually cured them, but sometimes he would roast one in a brick-lined pit opposite the stable, and the smell of the smoke would bring half the town to their common room.

"New un's not ready yet. Take some of the old upstairs," Mellet said without looking away from the pot. He was intensely inspecting cloves of garlic, checking for any imperfection. Ronnet and Myck were just beginning to mix dough for the next day's bread.

"Is he awake?" Dabed asked.

"No! I want yeh should eat twice what yeh normally do while you sit 'n watch that bloody lordlin' sleep!" Mellet stared crossly into the stew, as if it, not Dabed, had asked him a pointless question. "Poxy bast'rd woke just 'afore the lunch crowd, 'n took some water. Gwendel said 'e'll live. Just so's he can pay! Say 'is name was Hills, so poor chance of that." Mellet always griped, but he knew perfectly well about the two gold pieces in the saddle bags.

Dabed took a bowl for The Soldier—Hills—and made a trencher for himself. With his hands full of stew, he had to knock on the door with his toe. "Come," he barely heard. The Soldier was still in bed, wrapped to his neck with blankets.

"Some stew, ser?" Dabed asked.

"Not hungry. Let me sleep, boy." The golden-haired bastard barely opened his eyes.

"You haven't eaten in days. You need it to heal." It took all of Dabed's limited courage to contradict the man.

"Gods save me from overprotective farm boys. Fine, bring it here." Hills struggled to sit up, and when he took the bowl his hands shook so much that Dabed worried he'd spill the stew. But he didn't, and he ate a few bites.

Dabed sat in the chair again and looked out the window, east, over Oxcross's roofs. The River Road climbed gradually that way, toward Sarsfield and the Golden Tooth. The Sarsfields were their lords, but generally spent their time in Lannisport and left Oxcross to look after itself. Except for old Lord Olivar, the patriarch, who it was said could never return to Lannisport after some scandal. Some townspeople complained about having a disgraced landlord, but Dabed thought Lord Olivar did his duty well. He sent soldiers to patrol the woods when people complained of wolves or shadowcats, and sent riders out to check the road for damage after storms.

"I'm a stable boy." Dabed surprised himself with the comment, but continued. "My uncle owns the inn and my cousins cook the bread and I take care of all the horses. I'm not a farm boy."

"My mistake," Hills said. "How is my horse?"

"Worried for you," Dabed replied.

Hills looked at Dabed over a spoonful of stew, having stopped mid-bite. His eyes were dark brown, almost black. He blinked, took his bite, and chewed, still watching Dabed.

"Skagos can be protective," Hills said finally. "I hope he hasn't given you trouble."

"No," Dabed said. "He understands. You should visit him when you feel strong enough, though." Dabed was struck by how old Hills looked now, with his cheeks slack and pale and a nest of wrinkles around his brown eyes. That first night, Dabed would have thought Hills was in his twenties. Sitting there, swaddled and gingerly sipping stew, the man could have been forty. Still, the brown eyes under golden hair was striking. Dabed went back to watching out the window, tearing bits off his trencher and chewing them absently.

"You're the one who watched me, aren't you?" The question took Dabed by surprise.

"When I could," he said hesitantly.

"Thank you. I thought I'd die. I've thought that for…I'm not sure how long now" Hills paused, thinking.

"When did you get shot?" Dabed asked, again shocked at his boldness.

"Second evening after we left, making camp. Then I rode most of a day. All I remember." Hills didn't seem to mind the questions, as curious as Dabed at what had happened to him.

"Five days probably. You got here four nights ago." Hills studied Dabed again, and Dabed flushed.

"Clever boy. My name is Cormac Hills, what's yours?" Hills put the bowl, still half full, on the floor by the bed.

"Dabed."

"Just Dabed?"

"My uncle is Mellet Kelt, but my mother died before she said anything about my father."

"Dabed Hills, then. We're brothers." Cormac's eyes seemed to dance at the joke briefly. Like the sun pushing between the clouds.

Dabed didn't like being called Hills, preferring to think that his parents had been married. He had imagined a brave knight fending off an attack by brigands or a shadowcat, falling in the defense of his wife and young son. This story was another thing he knew not to discuss with his cousins, but he clung to it. Dabed even shunned Mellet's low accent when he spoke, thinking that someday his father would come back and take Dabed to court. But the joke in Cormac's eyes was benign, that of a man reaching for some common ground with a new acquaintance. Dabed gave Cormac a tight grin that he didn't feel.

Mellet came in then, and seeing Cormac sitting up, called downstairs for Gwendel. She checked the bandages again, saying that Cormac should heal fully, other than an impressive scar on his forehead. Mellet, deciding that Cormac was healthy enough for such things, brought up the price of the room and stable. He set the price high, and Dabed thought that Cormac knew Mellet was trying to cheat him.

"I need to stay some time longer." Cormac said firmly, to an approving nod from Gwendel. "I can pay of course, and am happy to work as I'm able, though not in the common room." Mellet quirked an eyebrow at that. "I prefer not to be seen by every farmer in the countryside."

"Fuck you hidin' from, eh? Deserter? Don't need no trouble like that." Mellet looked at the sword where it leaned by the door, next to the folded red leathers. Dabed knew he wouldn't be so forward if he thought Cormac could actually lift the sword.

"Don't you call me a traitor, innkeeper!" The fire in Cormac's eyes made Mellet step backward, toward the door. "Yes, there may be people looking for me. They are the enemies of House Lannister and the Westerlands, and when I'm stronger I assure you I'll hunt and kill each of them. I will remember your actions here, whether you help or hinder me, and reward you accordingly." Cormac had kept his voice low after the first outburst, but Mellet had continued to back away nonetheless.

"Fine, fine," Mellet said hastily, "you can have the room long as you like, and help in the kitchen and chopping wood." Dabed couldn't believe Mellet was still trying to get work from this fierce soldier.

Cormac nodded and turned to Gwendel, who had watched the exchange calmly. "What do I owe you for the medicine?"

"The gut and the sewing are free," she said judiciously, "but some of my herbs are hard to come by, and you used quite a lot. It'll cost me about a silver to buy more."

"Dabed?" Cormac looked over and Dabed nearly jumped. "Bring me my purse?" That deadly gleam left Cormac's eyes. Dabed rushed over to the pile of belongings and brought the purse over. Cormac fished out a silver piece and added two coppers, and pressed them into Gwendel's hand saying "thank you for your care."

"Just don't you go chopping wood for this fool and pulling out your stitches."

"Yes ma'am, I'll try" Cormac said deferentially.

"Soldiers," Gwendel said with feigned disapproval. She eyed Mellet and he shrank from her nearly as much as he had from Cormac, then left without another word. Mellet followed hastily.

When the others had left, Cormac seemed to deflate. He lay back down and fell asleep almost immediately. Cormac slept through the rest of the evening and the night, and Dabed took the time to rake out the stalls, turn over the hay, and catch up with all the other little chores it took to run a decent stable.

* * *

Dabed was sitting in the hay loft again, legs dangling out the door, when he heard the black destrier whicker. He turned to see Cormac limping in from the yard.

"Don't let me disturb you," Cormac said, "just checking on Skagos."

"I've given him extra oats and hay and I walked him 'round the yard yesterday," Dabed babbled, suddenly worried that Cormac would find his care lacking. "He's been stamping today and I was just about to take him out again…" Dabed trailed off.

"He's well looked-after," Cormac said, looking up at Dabed with a smile in his eyes. "He needs a ride, though, and that would probably tear my stitches. If I'm here when you get on, he won't throw you."

It took a moment for Dabed to understand what Cormac meant, and another to believe him, but then he flew into action. When someone watched Dabed saddle their horse, he knew it meant he'd either earn a copper for good, quick work, or a cuff over the ear for anything less. He saddled Skagos with all the practiced efficiency and care he could muster. The destrier was a hand and a half taller than any other horse Dabed had stabled, and it watched him as he worked. When Dabed lifted the saddle over Skagos's back, the buckle of the girth strap caught on the blanket and ended up between saddle and horse. Skagos's ears twitched back for a moment, but Cormac put a quieting hand on his muzzle. Dabed flushed and redoubled his care, snugging the girth strap just so and adjusting the stirrups for his own legs.

Cormac took the reins down and handed them to Dabed, and Dabed led the horse out of the stable. Skagos didn't tug or toss his head or even snort, but he did keep an ear cocked toward Cormac.

"You can get on now," Cormac said. Dabed looked at him to make sure, and Cormac made a shooing motion. Dabed climbed—truly climbed—onto the giant horse, and Cormad said "let's walk out to the road together."

Dabed hardly moved the reins as Skagos followed Cormac down the lane. Cormac's limp seemed to disappear as he walked, working out the knots from nearly five full days in bed. Dabed felt like a child on Skagos, but the horse's gait was smooth and Dabed was an experienced rider, for short distances at least. He swayed easily in the saddle, feeling the eager power in the horse's stride.

When they reached the road, Cormac said "take him out at a trot, and then up to a canter when you reach that tree." Cormac pointed at the huge oak that marked the end of Hamlin's fields and the beginning of the Sarsfield sharecropper lands. Oxcross gathered under its deep shade for town meetings, weddings, and the midsummer festival. "And don't forget to use your knees." Dabed had no idea what that meant, but didn't ask.

Dabed gave Skagos rein and gave a pat with his heels, and the horse nearly leaped into a gallop. Barely holding on, Dabed yelled "ho!" and pulled back on the reins and Skagos reared a little, giving an impatient stamp with one front hoof. Dabed looked back to see Cormac grinning at him. Murmuring "easy now," Dabed tried again, first a walk and then a trot. Skagos strained to run but Dabed kept him just under control. Coming up to a canter, Dabed began to feel the rhythm of the ride, the horse's breath in sync with its stride and Dabed's legs. Feeling that, Dabed began to ignore it, feeling instead the wind and watching Skagos's mane bounce.

They reached the big oak faster than Dabed expected. He reined in and pulled left to circle the tree, but Skagos kept up his canter down the road. Suddenly panicked, Dabed pulled harder back and left, tensing and leaning to urge the horse. Skagos finally turned, and Dabed realized _oh, knees._ Warhorses were trained to respond to knees more than reins, and Skagos had been as exultant and distracted as Dabed. Now that Dabed knew how to control Skagos, the horse responded beautifully, waiting patiently for a command and then responding with enthusiasm when Dabed gave one. He began to understand how men in stories could refer to their horses as extensions of their own bodies. Cormac had taken a seat on a tree stump by the road, a few yards down from the inn's lane. When they came even with him, Dabed leaned back, relaxed his legs, and Skagos stopped.

"Very nice," Cormac said, "it usually takes a recruit longer to learn to ride a warhorse. Maybe we should start recruiting stable boys." Dabed flushed with pride but said nothing.

They all walked off the northern side of the road toward the Ox Run, the stream that ran west off the Golden tooth and emptied somewhere north of Casterly Rock. It ran more or less straight here, pushing up against the foothills, lined by sycamore and cottonwood and willow trees. The northern bank was high and studded with big granite cobbles, which the town had used to build many of its walls and hedgerows. Sometimes that bank collapsed into the river and the river would flood the southern bank and any fields or houses built too close.

Dabed climbed off Skagos and Cormac told him it was alright to let the horse wander and graze. Then Cormac sat and took off his boots and trailed his feet in the stream. He sat back and looked up at the trees. Dabed sat down next to Cormac. Cormac had a little smile on his face but Dabed thought that he looked anxious, restless like his horse. Or maybe it was a longing, and that thought led Dabed unconsciously, inexorably to try yet again to remember his mother. It never worked. She was like that word he couldn't think of until the conversation was over.

"You're a watcher," Cormac said suddenly. "You don't say much because you're too busy thinking, and watching." Cormac looked over at Dabed expectantly.

"They all tease me because I'm quiet, but they beat me when I talk." Dabed said simply.

Cormac nodded. "That's hard." They watched the trees wave in the breeze for a while longer, listening to Skagos munching the river brush. Nobody grazed cattle down this way, because of the fields, so good grass grew thick by the stream. Again, Cormac broke the silence. "A hard life makes a hard man. Those lords down there," Cormac looked left, west, toward Casterly Rock, "they live soft lives."

"But they're soldiers and knights," Dabed objected.

Cormac waved his dismissal. "Sure, some of them train in arms, and they all have to be clever. But they all expect the world to bend down to them, and when it doesn't, they're cruel and vindictive, and they think that makes them hard."

Dabed didn't know what most of that meant, but said "I wish I knew how to use a sword." If he'd thought about it more he wouldn't have said it, with the request implied. He had learned with bruises that it was better not to ask anything of anybody. But now, with the words out, he felt a crazy hope, and continued. "I'll bet you don't get picked on by your cousins." Cormac laughed at that.

"Dabed, there are always older cousins. Besides, if I know how to use my sword, it's not because I've ever really used it." Dabed shot him a surprised look. "Oh I practice, and I spar, but I've only been in a few fights. All but one, I used my fists and took as many lumps as I gave. And the one when I finally had my sword…" Cormac trailed off, flinching as if his shoulder suddenly hurt him. "I'm just glad I didn't drop it with everything else."

"What happened?" Dabed asked, suddenly bold.

But then Cormac shot Dabed a stern look. "I took off my armor and someone shot me." The fire was back in Cormac's eyes, but he turned and spoke to the opposite bank. "So I dropped my bedroll, left my armor and most of my food on the ground, got on my horse, and ran. Didn't even think to draw my sword. The rest…my squad…" he trailed off for a moment but started again. "Dabed, best you didn't ask me any more about that. Best you don't know."

They sat quietly for another long moment. This time, Dabed couldn't make himself feel the peace of the stream and the breeze. He imagined the verdant canopy hiding archers and men with long knives, ready to leap down on them.

"What I told your uncle is true," Cormac said, sounding weary. "They may come for me. It could be a column of soldiers in Lannister colors, or three rough men and a mule. I just don't know." Dabed's confusion must have shown on his face. Cormac huffed. "All I know is that someone shot me. I don't know who did it, or who ordered it, or why. But when someone shoots you, it's best to assume they want you dead. Maybe enough to try twice."

"What can we do?" Dabed asked, a quivering knot of apprehension growing just above his stomach.

"We?" Cormac said, eyebrows raised, and Dabed flushed. "I need to heal, and then I need to train. Until I'm ready to go find these fucks," Cormac spat the word, "I need you to watch. I know you watch out west, so just tell me when you see someone coming up the road."

Dabed nodded, and then that crazy hope welled up in him again. "Do you need someone to train with?" Cormac's laughter burst from him so suddenly, Dabed jumped. But it wasn't reproachful, and Cormac eyed Dabed. They sat a few minutes more and then walked back to the inn and Cormac spent the rest of that day sleeping.

* * *

Cormac was a long time in recovering his full strength. The day after their first ride, he chopped some wood, and bled a little. Afterward, he again fell asleep for most of the day, but the morning after he awoke seeming invigorated. He chopped enough wood for a week and then took Skagos out for a short ride. His back bled a little more, spotting his shirt, but the stitches didn't tear. The next day he went easier, helping Dabed some in the stable and then sitting like Dabed did, legs out the loft door, watching the West. They didn't talk for a long time, but Cormac took out his whetstone and ran it along the edge of his sword. Dabed sat there and listened and watched with him, the sound of whetstone on blade seeming to work up his spine.

"Why do you sharpen it so much?" Dabed asked after Cormac's hundredth stroke.

"As much for me as for the sword." Cormac said. "It's not really getting sharper right now. But putting it into the scabbard will dull it a little, and pushing it through a man will dull it more. If something notches the edge, I'll be hours or days bringing the edge back. So I get used to sharpening it for a long time. Get to like it even. So when my sword needs attention, I'm ready to give it."

They sat awhile longer, until Cormac saw Dabed eyeing the sword again.

"Do you really want to learn?" Cormac asked, to an emphatic nod. "Why?"

"I just want all the others to leave me alone." Dabed said, trying not to sound sullen. "I know I won't have a sword to use, but maybe if I could find a stick…" Dabed trailed off.

"Hm. Sword training will help even an unarmed man, but it would still be stupid to take on two or three at a time. Know your limits, and live quiet. That's the most important thing to learn, and I think you already have." Cormac gave Dabed a long look. "I'll teach you a little. You have to promise not to use it to beat on other boys. A soldier lives to defend the helpless, not hurt them." Dabed nodded gravely. "Well," Cormac said, standing, "best begin then. Come down here." They climbed down into the open space between stalls.

Cormac held the sword out to Dabed, hilt up. "Show me how you hold it," he said. Dabed took the sword, backed away a pace, and held it up before him, in two hands. His right was just under the crossguard, and his left was holding the last inch of handle and the pommel.

"Two-handed," Cormac declared, "good for power and precision. Good for a headsman or the King's Justice, shite for most real fights, but I may as well show you how to do it right. First, get your hands together. Right on top is good, but turn the sword so you can put your right thumb on the flat of the blade. Now put your right foot back, so you can step into your attack. All you can do with your shoulders squared like that is swing up and down. If you step into a man, with the blade held flat and all your strength behind a thrust, that blade will go through mail and between ribs."

Cormac stepped up behind Dabed and pulled his left hand off the grip and turned Dabed sideways, so his right foot was forward. He pushed Dabed's right arm out in front of him, slightly bent, sword level. "A duelist's grip," he said.

"It's too heavy," Dabed complained.

"You're half right. The sword will feel lighter with training. I can fight passably with one hand, but it _is _weaker. You can swing, jab, slice, and move your body around the sword and your opponent in ways that even an armored knight can't defend against. With lighter swords, the masters of Braavos can defeat most any Westerosi knight in plate. But if that knight gets one solid hit, knocks the sword out of your hand or even just knocks your guard down, you're finished."

Cormac took the sword from Dabed, who protested.

"Do you have a heavy glove of some kind? Go put on the left," Cormac ordered. Dabed found a glove they used while baling hay and put the left one on. Cormac handed the sword back to him.

"Now," Cormac said, "here's how you end up in a real fight. Remember, the last thing you want is to notch your sword or dull it on the enemy's armor, so you take the handle in your right and the blade in your left and you keep it as far away from the enemy as you can. Then you just try to get him on the ground so you can stab him properly."

Dabed grabbed the blade with his gloved left hand, a little below the point. Cormac suddenly rushed toward him, brandishing a pitchfork Dabed hadn't noticed him pick up, swinging the handle overhand at Dabed's head. Dabed instinctively held the sword up to block, while shying to his left.

"Good!" Cormac exclaimed, freezing the pitchfork handle just over Dabed's head. "Can you guess what to do next?"

Dabed composed himself and looked at the sword and handle. He slid the sword down and left against the pitchfork's haft, hooking the crossguard over the pole. Then he stepped in toward Cormac, and pivoted the sword back up and right, swinging the pole over his head and bringing the sword's blade to bear on Cormac's neck.

"See?" Cormac said, delighted. He came at Dabed again with a thrust, like a spearman. Dabed parried awkwardly, knowing that a real spear would have skewered his leg by the groin, a mortal wound. "Ah, I forgot," Cormac said, "to parry that, you'd slide your left hand up the blade so you can swing it in a wider arc. That may ruin your glove though. And maybe your hand too." Cormac quirked a smile at that. "To use this stance you need thick, hard gauntlets or mail mittens. Anyway we shouldn't practice with a sharp sword. Training hurts nearly as many soldiers as battle, even with dull weapons. Find two good green sticks, thumb thick at least, and give them crossguards for tomorrow." Cormac took the sword back, and Dabed stripped off the glove, surprised at how sweaty his hand was inside. He didn't remember feeling nervous.

Cormac paused as he slid his sword back into its red leather sheath. "Let's see what you've learned. What is the most important thing to bring to a fight?"

"Mail mittens," Dabed said, uncertain.

"Good to have, but no. Try again."

_Simpler _"A good sword, and sharp." Dabed said.

"No. I'll give you one more guess." Cormac didn't seem disappointed, so Dabed guessed that this was a lesson, not a test.

"Training?" Dabed tried, grasping.

"Clever lad, you've robbed me of my second point. But what is the one most important thing to bring to a fight, if you have nothing else?" Cormac paused for effect and said, "a friend you can trust."

"You had friends, though, didn't you? You had a whole squad with you." Dabed regretted the words before he was finished speaking them, before he saw the fire in Cormac's eyes. But the fire went out in a moment and Cormac quirked a grin.

"I was so proud of a point well made," Cormac paused. "Yes, I had a squad with me, and they're all dead. I trusted them, and they trusted me, and we all took arrows from the trees when we were setting camp. Do you see my problem?"

Dabed thought hard, but said "no."

"I have many friends who are good in a fight. But one of them, I shouldn't have trusted."

"Which one?" Dabed asked, still nervous, but Cormac just looked tired. And again, that longing.

"I don't know. But now you understand my problem, don't you? Beyond the fact that maybe someone will come to kill me soon."

Dabed thought hard again, and this time he understood, and the understanding was like a belly full of lead. "Now you have to kill one of your friends." He couldn't look at Cormac. Dabed had never had a good friend. This strong, charismatic man, this squad leader who had friends and comrades in court in Lannisport, was talking about killing one. He climbed to the loft, and sat there long into the night, staring west.


End file.
